


Where Darkness Follows

by alpha_exodus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dark, Dark Mark, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Snakes, Swearing, light gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 01:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3709565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry dreams of snakes and darkness, and Malfoy is always watching him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Darkness Follows

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** ['That Picture'](http://alekina.tumblr.com/post/110998951140/he-wants-to-laugh-at-the-irony-he-really-does-as) is a work of and belongs to [alekina](http://alekina.tumblr.com/). The general non-profit, fair-use disclaimer for Harry Potter fanfiction and fanart applies.  
>  **Author's Notes** : This was written for Prompt #44! I kind of took the idea and ran with it, using the prompt as a springboard, so it's not quite how I envisioned it when I accepted the prompt. But I hope everyone enjoys it just the same! Thanks to you, all_not_well, for such a wonderful idea, and a song to go with it (:
> 
> Thank you ever so much to my betas, FeelsForBreakfast and calypso_mary, for holding my hands through this! I doubt it would ever have come this far without those two. <3 Alekina, I hope you are enjoying all the works that were inspired by your beautiful piece of art. And lastly, thanks to the mods for holding such a fun little fest!
> 
> See spoiler-y warnings at the bottom.

Slither slow, slither slow…

The hissing is behind him.

Harry turns. Even though everything around him is dark, he can see the snakes writhing on the floor as if they were illuminated by an unseen light.

He’s not scared. He pulls out his wand, making hissing noises of his own, and the snakes perk their heads at him attentively.

Their slithering, writhing bodies briefly still. One by one, the snakes crawl up his body, twisting around his ankles, arms, neck. He is covered with them, but they’re not heavy.

He begins to walk down what is now a long corridor. He sees a person in the distance where there wasn’t anyone before, but somehow he knows that they’ve been watching him the whole time.

As he gets closer, Malfoy’s sharp chin and grey eyes come into focus. He is wandless. Harry has the power.

He feels the darkness gathering in his core. Soon, but not yet, he’ll let it all out.

A snake crawls down his leg, heading for the other man. The rest follow. Malfoy doesn’t look scared either; Harry wonders why.

The snakes don’t touch Malfoy, but they circle around him eerily. Malfoy doesn’t even spare them a glance. He stares into Harry’s soul; his eyes are saying “I know what you’re doing.”

That’s fine. Harry can wait until he looks away.

-X-

Harry jolts awake, sitting up in bed and shivering. His body is covered in sweat, his scar is aching, and the obvious erection tenting the blankets sends a wave of guilt shooting through him. Fucking hell, will this never end?

Thanking Merlin yet again that eighth years get their own rooms, he slides out of bed and makes his way across the corridor and into the loo. He splashes water on his face and tries to ignore the raging hard-on that hasn’t yet gone away.

Trudging back across the hall, he crawls into a bed that’s still warm and smells of sweat. He sighs, grabbing his wand and casting a cleaning charm. That’s better.

He’s still hard. If it was for any other reason, he would have dealt with it by now, but he _hates_ giving in to the dreams, giving in to Malfoy’s stare, giving in to the thought of those pink lips around his cock.

He tries to wait it out, but the temptation is too much. Pushing the guilt aside for later, he leans over and yanks open the drawer of his nightstand, rifling through it until his hand brushes against the thick textbook at the bottom. He pulls it out, flips through until he finds _the photo_ , and snatches it out from in between the pages. The spellbook falls back to the floor, already forgotten, as Harry shoves his pajama bottoms down his hips and takes his cock in hand.

The photo is worn and ragged, nabbed from the Prophet that ran during the brief time that Malfoy was imprisoned after the war. It was obviously taken before their seventh year, since the Mark on his arm is still reddened from application. Apparently whoever had taken it had decided to sell it to the Prophet when Draco was incarcerated. Harry bets it was a Slytherin.

Photo-Malfoy gives him a dark, alluring stare; it’s similar to the expression that he had seen on dream-Malfoy’s face only minutes before. Photo-Malfoy swallows, blinking lazily. And _there_ , he reaches up to run his hand through mussed, silky hair, flashing his Mark in the process.

Harry groans. His hand moves on his cock, his thumb sliding over the head on every other stroke. He times it to the loop of the picture, the glimpse of the distorted snake on pale, pale skin.

He’s not sure quite when he started wanking to the picture, when he finally gave in to the lure of Malfoy’s gaze. It was after he killed Voldemort—he had never associated the Mark with anything other than evil, before then. But the subsequent summer had been long and sticky-hot, and the heat had left a haze of sweat and dullness over memories that he really would rather not think about anyway. He could do without remembering the grief and pain of the post-war aftermath. All he knows is that he’s been wanking, thinking, dreaming about Malfoy since long before the term started.

His orgasm builds and implodes within him. He drops the photo, letting it drift down to the floor as the pleasure spirals through his groin. After laying there for a moment to catch his breath, he quickly grabs his wand, spelling the mess away and the photo back into the spellbook (which he then shoves into the drawer). The feeling that this is dirty and wrong still resonates within him— it does so every time he does this, in fact. Yes, it’s Malfoy, and yes, it might even be the darkness that is calling to him, but there’s something beyond the obvious objections that feels corrupted and odd. Try as he might, he can’t figure out why.

This is all Malfoy’s fault, with his stupid Mark and silky hair and lingering presence in his dreams…

Deciding to stop thinking about it for now, he spells away the sweat and attempts to fall back asleep.

-X-

Malfoy always seems to be watching him. When he drops something in the corridor and bends to pick it up, there’s Malfoy, right behind him. When he’s sitting in the eighth year Common Room, Malfoy shoots glances at him too often for mere coincidence to be the cause. Of course, having almost exactly the same class schedule may factor into it. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that Malfoy is always, always looking at Harry.

Harry tries to look away from Malfoy, for the most part. Looking at him makes Harry queasy, makes his head start to hurt, because Malfoy has been overtaken by darkness.

Maybe it was inevitable, seeing as his father had died in the final battle. It was all over the papers when Narcissa went mad—it would be no surprise if Malfoy had gone off the deep end as well, honestly. Harry didn’t even remember seeing Malfoy at the battle—he had probably been hiding, lying in wait for the victor to become apparent.

Maybe he fancies himself the new Dark Lord. Harry doesn’t know. All he knows is that Malfoy’s Dark Mark, instead of fading like the others, has started emitting black smoke that engulfs his entire arm. And it’s not a dream, either: Harry pinched himself when he first saw it, and it hurt like hell. He wonders why no one else mentions it, why Malfoy was even allowed back at Hogwarts in the first place. He’s always alone. No one bothers to try and speak to him. The Mark has overtaken him, and Harry feels like he’s the only one who’s noticed.

The idea that there’s a link between the Mark and Harry’s scar has been simmering in the back of his mind since the beginning of the semester. He’s becoming more and more sure of his theory—it would explain everything. The way Malfoy can’t stop looking at him. The reason Harry’s head hurts if he stares back for too long.

Long though the thought has lingered, Harry doesn’t know what to do about it.

Harry walks into the Charms classroom, eyes flitting over to Malfoy’s seat. Malfoy is watching him.

-X-

_Hisssss._

Harry opens his mouth to talk, and a snake crawls out instead. He waits patiently and lets it wrap itself around his neck, not at all in a hurry. At last, when its tail slides out from between his lips, he is able to speak.

“You’re always here.” It’s a fact, not a question; a statement, not a curse.

Normally when Harry speaks in dreams, Malfoy just stares. Today, he replies.

“You want me to be here."

Harry thinks it may be the longest phrase he’s heard from the man’s lips in months, and it’s not even real.

“Since when?” In contrast to the guilt and suspicion of his waking self, his dreams have the side effect of numbing his emotions. He doesn’t recall wanting Malfoy here, but nor does he recall the opposite.

“A while,” Malfoy blinks, pushing up the sleeves of his robe.

The sight of the Mark sends some sort of emotion through Harry, and he is surprised. Emotions have no place here, with the darkness and the snakes and the hissing.

“If you hate it so much, then get rid of it,” Malfoy says, voice marred with disgust. He is glaring at the Mark, just like Harry is.

“Oh, I will,” Harry decides, thinking that it’s a brilliant idea.

But he can’t do away with the niggling thought that, just maybe, he’s already done that.

-X-

Getting rid of the Mark. Why hasn’t he thought about that before? It’s the easiest solution, really. Maybe—maybe everyone has been waiting for Harry to do something about it, and he’s just been oblivious. It’s odd that no one has explicitly asked him to do so, but stranger things have happened to Harry. And there’s been an inordinate amount of suspicious glances from Hermione in recent weeks, too. He feels like things are starting to make sense.

“The effect on the potion has to do with the qualities of the plant,” Neville explains to Ron on the other side of the room. Harry is sitting on Neville’s bed and pretending to study while the other two boys converse quietly.

He turns another page in his Charms text, seeing the words but not reading them. The first thing he’ll need to do is research. Hermione would be proud, though he doesn’t really want to divulge the entire plan to her (or anyone else). Even if she does know what he’s up to, he feels like she would immediately want to help, and this feels like something that he needs to do alone, he’s sure of it. (Not to mention that he has no intention of mentioning the dreams or his subsequent masturbation. Ever.)

“I can’t quite remember, though—let me grab my book,” he hears Neville say.

Research, and then he’ll have to find some way to get Malfoy alone. For some reason, the thought doesn’t scare him—it’s probably because of the dreams. He’s grown so used to having Malfoy there when he’s asleep that the idea of confronting him awake has ceased to faze him. Even if the Mark has tainted Malfoy, even if the darkness has seeped into his soul… Who would be better to help him than Harry?

No one has been speaking to Malfoy recently, and even though Harry knows it’s probably because of that dark, insidious Mark, he can’t help but feel a small amount of sadness for his rival. He’ll bring Malfoy back to the light, he’s sure he can.

“Oy, look at that! Isn’t that a Remembrall? Harry, c’mere!” Ron interrupts his thoughts, motioning over to where he and Neville are standing in front of Neville’s trunk. “Remember this?”

Harry chuckles, setting his textbook down and going over to take a look. Ron picks up the small sphere that’s lying in the trunk.

Neville reddens slightly. “It’s a bit embarrassing, but…” he shrugs, nodding.

“I can’t believe you kept it all this time!” Ron stares into the smoky ball, then tosses it to Harry.

“Well, not exactly—“ Neville starts, but then the Remembrall touches Harry’s palms—and starts smoking.

All three boys look down at the sphere in alarm. Instead of the traditional pink color, it’s turned an angry, brilliant red. Harry almost drops it in shock when the glass begins to heat rapidly.

“Must be broken,” he says, tossing it quickly back to Neville. “It’s pretty old, after all.” Feeling shaky, he shrugs and turns away, walking out of the room. He’s not sure why he feels so unsettled.

In Neville’s hands, the ball reverts into a rosy pink color. “But this is a new one,” he murmurs to Ron, confusion layering the air.

-X-

They are standing at the edge of a dark, smoking crater. He, Malfoy, and the plethora of snakes are gazing down into the smoldering hole. The darkness is terrifying, roiling with intensity, and at the very bottom of the chasm is a bubbling lake of lava. The hissing of the liquefied rock joins, rejoices with the chorus of snakes. Though the heat is fierce, the bubbling is almost subdued—as if something is suppressing a possible eruption.

The dreams are changing. Right after the war, it was always just he, Malfoy, and the snakes. No words, no scenery—just darkness.

It was only when he returned to Hogwarts that things started _happening._ And now, here they are, on the edge of this immense abyss.

Harry throws a stern gaze at the blond man beside him. “Did you do this?” he asks.

Malfoy looks at him cautiously, then shakes his head. “It was you, I think. But I helped.”

“When?” Harry frowns, because he just… can’t… remember.

Malfoy sighs, shaking his head. “Figure it out, Potter,” he mutters quietly.

He turns toward Harry and begins to undo the buttons of his shirt. Harry isn’t sure if he wants to stay asleep and watch, or wake up and _try to remember._

Time speeds, and Malfoy’s shirt is off. He’s swallowing uncertainly, his Mark sharp against his arm, the scars scattered on his chest like a flash of lightning.

He starts to unbutton his trousers, and Harry groans, waking up.

The moment his eyes fly open, he doesn’t hesitate to shove his pajama bottoms out of the way, not even bothering to scramble for the picture before he starts tugging at his cock. He doesn’t need it, just needs to close his eyes and replay the sight of Malfoy’s hesitant fingers gliding over buttons a thousand times over.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, wanking to a false version of his former rival. Latent attraction is simmering, coming to a boil, and he can’t do anything to stop it.

His fingers glide quickly over his prick as sleepy images start coming to mind. There are too many—he can’t push them all away. Maybe he’ll feel guilty later, but he’s too lost in the moment to care.

Malfoy on his knees in the darkness, getting ready to suck Harry’s cock.

Malfoy positioned below him, pushing up into Harry’s arse so slowly it aches.

Malfoy keening, moaning, convulsing beneath him as his orgasm hits.

It’s the last image that does Harry in, that throws him so far over the edge that he’s not sure he can return. He falls asleep almost immediately after, the exhaustion pulling him down.

When he wakes up sticky and frustrated the next morning, he can barely remember what he dreamed about.

-X-

He throws himself into research as if it’s his first year and he needs to find out about Nicholas Flamel. Hermione squints at him but doesn’t say anything when he sits down next to her, a large pile of books in his arms. He wonders why she seems so suspicious—is it really that odd for him to be researching something? But then, she’s seemed suspicious a lot lately.

She doesn’t comment when he does the same thing the next day, and the next. He takes that as a sign that this is what he’s meant to be doing.

Sometimes Malfoy is in the library too, and Harry takes care to avoid his gaze. But this time, Malfoy is too close for Harry to ignore the quick glances that the man shoots him. So he stares back, expression blank, studying Malfoy’s suddenly wide eyes and the dark cloud that obscures his Marked arm. He wonders if the darkness hurts, or if Malfoy is even aware of it.

Maybe it’s something that only Harry can see—he’s always been hypersensitive to anything that deals with Voldemort, so in a way it makes sense. It comes from being a former Horcrux, he supposes. In that case, Malfoy may not even know that the darkness is eating away at his soul.

His head has started aching, and he has to consciously keep his hand from pressing against his scar. Malfoy is still looking at him, almost like he wants to say something, but then he looks away.

Harry investigates the darkness further, following the trail up Malfoy’s side—it extends all the way to his shoulder. He needs to get rid of it, get rid of the Mark.

A sharp pinch from Hermione makes him tear his eyes away from the blond. “What?” he mutters quietly.

Her face is strangely solemn. “Don’t stare,” she murmurs.

“But he stares at me all the time!” he protests.

“It’s different,” Hermione squints at him again. “Look, Harry. Have you talked to him?”

He resists a grin. Hermione knows what he’s trying to do, he bets. That makes it all right—approval from Hermione is almost the same as approval from the Headmistress herself.

“Not yet. But I will,” he assures her. “It’ll just be a bit longer.”

“Until what?” she asks curiously.

Now that he’s actually discussing the plan, it feels a bit silly. He settles for shrugging and saying, “You know.”

Hermione seems to accept this. “All right. Tell me how it goes, okay?”

Harry nods and resumes his research.

-X-

He’s sitting on the floor, watching the snakes surround and crawl over Malfoy’s half-dressed body. The other man is sitting less than a meter away, eyeing the snakes with quiet interest.

Rippling, moving, a snake glances up at Harry, but then crawls back to Malfoy’s side.

“Cute, aren’t they?” Harry tracks the tail of a tiny snake that seems to be diligently following the lines of Malfoy’s scars.

“You pick the oddest dreamscapes,” Malfoy’s face twists wryly. He lets the baby snake crawl up onto his Marked arm and encircle his wrist.

“It’s not like I really have a choice about what I dream about,” Harry shrugs. He motions behind them, to the rippling chasm that has swallowed the ground. “Like that—I’d rather that not be here.”

“You could make it go away,” Malfoy tells him. “If you really wanted to.”

“I do,” Harry nods, feeling apprehensive for no reason at all.

Malfoy pauses, then changes the subject. “What about me? Do you want me here?”

Harry swallows, scooting closer and taking care not to crush any of the snakes. “I think so,” he decides. “But I’m not sure why.”

Malfoy reaches out with his unmarked arm, squeezing Harry’s thigh with long, gentle fingers. It’s the first time Malfoy’s touched him inside the dreams, and the feel of his fingers makes Harry burn with lust.

“You may not know why,” Malfoy strokes his thigh slowly, making his entire body tingle. “But I do.”

-X-

 _Malfoy knows something._ That’s the impression Harry gets immediately upon waking up. Malfoy somehow knows something that Harry is unaware of, if his dream is to be believed.

Ignoring his erection for once ( _even though he’s so hard from Malfoy’s hand on his leg_ ), he swings his legs out of bed and goes to sit at his desk. Picking up a book at random, he thumbs through it for the index and glances down the list. Marking, bonding, anything like that would do…

He spies a promising entry: _Sn_ _akes, as used in bonding: See Tattoo Bonding, pg. 72._

Flipping through to the specified page, he feels a swell of triumph, because he knows immediately that this is what he’s been looking for. The image on the page—a single snake, changing slowly into a black tattoo—shimmers slightly with hidden darkness. His eyes dart through the spell theory and description, and he winces at the casting process. Apparently, it requires a real snake to be embedded into the skin—a process that is excruciating for the one who is receiving the Mark.

He has no doubt, now, that this is how Dark Marks are formed. The picture is almost exactly like the Marks he has seen. There are a few minor differences evident, but they’re just simple stylistic changes. He turns the page, looking for more, but it’s the end of the entire chapter.

Frantically, he turns back, looking more carefully now. Removal, he needs to know how to remove it…

 _There._ It’s a small addendum in one of the casting steps: “Thusly, in the process, the caster must speaketh to the serpent in its hissing tongue. (Repealing the link created by the process requireth only this.)”

In the snake’s hissing tongue. Parseltongue. Of course. Harry feels a sudden wave of happiness sweep over him—this doesn’t sound hard at all. Voldemort, in his pride, apparently thought that he was the only Parseltongue in existence, back when the Death Eaters were originally founded. This is brilliant.

He scans the page again, because that can’t be the only requirement for removal, can it? All he finds is a tiny footnote mentioning that he must point his wand at the Mark during the removal process, as the “magick requireth a point of focus.”

Feeling jittery with his success, he sets the book back down, diving back into bed and shutting his eyes. Soon, he can remove the Mark, Malfoy will be freed, and Harry’s scar will finally stop hurting.

-X-

“Hermione said you were going to talk to him,” Ginny says by way of greeting, flicking her hair behind her shoulder as she sits across from Harry at lunchtime. No one else has arrived yet.

“Talk to who?” Harry frowns.

Ginny gives him a look. “Don’t play dumb, Harry.”

Oh. This is about Malfoy, then. Has Hermione told her already? Do all of his friends know about his plan? There’s no reason Ginny would be asking, if she didn’t already know. But some parts of him still want to make it a surprise, so he is purposely vague when he answers. After all, he hasn’t discussed his actual methods with anyone yet.

“I’ll do it later today,” he nods.

He’s unprepared for the wide grin that slides onto her face. “That’s great!” she exclaims, and Harry gets the feeling that she would have hugged him if they had not been sitting across the table.

Who knew his friends were so invested in making sure Malfoy’s Mark was removed? They could have just asked him, if they wanted it done that badly. Despite the bit of confusion spiraling in his stomach, he smiles and nods, reaching forward to transfer some treacle tart to his plate.

-X-

Harry sits and waits in the eighth year Common Room, resisting the urge to pace. Any minute, now, Malfoy will walk in, ignore everyone, and bypass the seating area in favor of his bedroom. But this time, Harry will be waiting to intercept him.

Every time he thinks about the plan, a drop of adrenaline spins through him. Every creak of the door causes his head to jerk up in response. He’s not sure he can take the suspense any longer. He wants, _needs_ this to work so badly—the dreams have sucked him in, have made him think about Malfoy all too often, and it needs to stop. The guilt is eating him alive; the darkness of the Mark taunts him every time their paths cross.

He almost can’t believe it when Malfoy’s white-blond head shows itself in the doorway. Standing up so suddenly that he almost falls over, he tries to hide the jitters running through his body as he makes his way over to Malfoy.

“I want to talk,” he says, eyes flitting from the bag on Malfoy’s shoulder to the neutral expression on his face. The darkness, he avoids for now. There will be time to focus on that later.

Malfoy’s swallow is audible, but he nods. “All right,” he says, and starts walking to the bedroom-lined corridor.

Harry is completely thrown off balance, and he has to force himself to follow Malfoy. He wasn’t expecting such easy acquiescence. He had been prepared to argue, to persuade, to expend most of his energy trying to get Malfoy alone. This is unexpected. But good, of course. It just makes things easier in the long run.

Malfoy stops in front of Harry’s door. “Your room or mine?” he asks, and for some reason his voice is trembling.

“Mine,” Harry replies, pushing past him to spell the door open. He wonders if he should have tidied up his room a bit, but then doesn’t have time to worry because Malfoy is already shutting the door behind them.

Well, this is it. He was going to explain his plan in the middle of convincing Malfoy to follow him, but that idea has already gone down the drain, and his voice seems to have gotten stuck in his throat somewhere along the way.

Knowing that it’s probably a bad idea to touch Malfoy with no explanation whatsoever, he decides to do it anyway. Feeling reckless, empowered, he stalks forward, slipping a hand into Malfoy’s hair and forcibly turning that blond head away. He hears a small gasp from Malfoy, but the man doesn’t resist—why? Nothing is going as he’d expected—Malfoy is being incredibly pliant, and Harry wants to curse because he honestly finds it kind of hot. But he’s not supposed to be thinking about Malfoy like that, not now, not ever—only in dreams.

“Potter,” Malfoy murmurs, but doesn’t continue. Harry feels that he owes him at least some explanation for all of this.

“I’m removing your Mark,” he explains quietly.

It’s only then that Malfoy flinches. Why then, and not before? Harry doesn’t know, but he’s in too deep to stop. He steels himself, readying his wand, and looks down at the darkness that is Malfoy’s Marked arm.

And then pain explodes in his head.

 _Fuck!_ It’s like the headaches he’s had around Malfoy before, but it hurts a million times worse. He’s too close to the darkness—that must be what’s hurting him, his head is _exploding._ He doesn’t know why he ever thought that it was his scar that hurt, because this is his entire head, the pain is shooting through his jaw and behind his eyeballs it hurts it hurts _it hurts._

 _”Harry!”_ he’s dimly aware of Malfoy’s scream. How odd, for him to be screaming Harry’s given name. But thinking hurts, feeling hurts, it all hurts…

He’s so overcome by pain that he’s not even aware of passing out.

-X-

His eyes flutter open briefly. The searing pain is there, there, it’s everything, it feels like something is attacking his brain, almost like the Occlumency training—  
Somehow, he’s aware that he’s in the hospital wing. A warm voice and a sharp voice are talking: Hermione and Malfoy, he thinks. He catches a brief snatch of their conversation.

“He doesn’t remember anything!” the sharp voice cries.

“We thought he was okay…” The warm voice sounds distraught.

“Oww,” Harry moans, wanting someone, anyone, to notice how much he hurts.

Then, a clucking voice—Madame Pomfrey—over his head. “No, Mr. Potter, back to sleep with you until we find out what’s going on.” She tsks, and a vial touches his lips. He opens his mouth and dives back into oblivion.

-X-

They’re sitting on the edge of the crater. It feels daring, dangerous, but since it’s a dream, it doesn’t matter.

The baby snake has taken a shine to Malfoy and is currently wrapped around his neck. The rest of them slither around, never going very far. Harry lets one crawl up the back of his shirt, feels it come out of the neck hole and hiss from behind his ear.

“Soon,” Malfoy says.

“You think?” Harry asks.

“Yes. Look,” Malfoy points down into the crater.

The lava that was previously simmering is now boiling, spitting, and ever slowly rising. Harry swallows, suddenly feeling the heat from the hole in the ground.

“Are you scared?” Malfoy asks, wincing as the baby snake bites him on the shoulder. It’s harmless, though, Harry knows.

“I’m not sure. A bit,” Harry replies. “What’s going to happen when it’s all filled in?”

“I don’t know,” Malfoy shrugs, looking apprehensive. “But that’s how it’s supposed to be.”

-X-

He tentatively opens his eyes once more. It’s quiet, still nighttime, and his head is sore, but it’s nowhere near as bad as it had been before he slept. At least he doesn’t have an erection—he’s sure the pain killed any lingering sexual tension that would have been caused by his dream.

Someone’s heaving a sigh of relief at his bedside. He turns his head. It’s Ron, looking at him with an uncertain smile on his face.

“Glad to have you back, mate. I’m gonna go get Hermione.”

Harry raises a hand to stop him. “Wait, what’s going on?”

But Ron just shakes his head. “Hermione said not to tell you anything just yet. To be honest, we’re not quite sure what’s happening either.”

He pushes past the privacy curtain, leaving Harry alone to puzzle over the circumstances. First of all, the pain. What the fuck was that about? All he had done was look into the darkness.

It kind of hurts to even think about the pain, so he moves on. Malfoy called him Harry. That had never, ever happened before. He doesn’t know what to think about it, either. Does that mean Malfoy thinks of him as ‘Harry’ in his own head? But why? Even in dreams, Malfoy is still Malfoy to him.

 

He’s getting ready to analyze the odd expression on Ron’s face when Hermione bustles into the curtained-off area, nightgown rumpled from sleep.

 

“Harry! Thank God,” she says, coming forward and hugging him, Ron trailing behind her. “Are you all right?”

Harry tries his best to talk around the mass of curls that is suddenly in his face. “My head is sore and I’m really confused, so yeah, I’m fantastic, thanks,” he rolls his eyes.

Hermione steps back, giving him a _look._ “Harry James…” she says, and sighs. “You know, part of me wants to be mad at you, but it’s not actually your fault, so I can’t be.”

“What’s not my fault?” he frowns. Technically, it is his fault, since it was trying to remove Malfoy’s Mark that did this in the first place. Maybe she’s trying to say that it’s actually

Malfoy’s fault? That doesn’t feel right, either.

Hermione opens her mouth, then pauses and says something different. “It’s… you know what, we really need Malfoy here for this. And Pomfrey, too.” She elbows Ron. “Go get them?”

 

Ron scowls. “Do we _really_ need Malfoy here, ‘Mione?”

“Ronald, this involves him more than it involves you and I,” she says sternly. “Go get him. And be nice!”

“Wait, why are we being nice to Malfoy?” Harry asks. Not that he _wouldn’t_ be nice to him, but Hermione and Ron aren’t the ones dreaming about him every night.

“See, even Harry doesn’t want to be nice to him,” Ron says.

“Just because Harry’s lost his memory doesn’t mean—oh, shite,” Hermione suddenly cuts off, glancing at Harry frantically.

Lost his memory? _What?_

Harry sits up, ignoring the pounding of blood in his head. “Explain. Now.”

Hermione grits her teeth. “I want to, honestly, I do, but we need them…” She turns to Ron, who has stopped halfway to the curtain to listen in. “Go!”

Harry groans in exasperation. Hermione mouths “I’m sorry,” and clasps her hands together, eyes looking suspiciously watery.

And so he has to wait for others to get there yet again before he can find out what the bloody hell is going on.

When Ron comes back in, followed by the two he was sent to get, Harry has had enough.

“Will someone tell me what the hell just happened? What do you mean, I’ve lost my memory?” he asks, eyeing Hermione, Ron, and a bath-robed Pomfrey in turn. He avoids looking at Malfoy. He’s not taking his chances with the darkness again.

 

No one seems to want to look at Harry, and it’s silent. Is it so difficult of a subject that they can’t even bear to tell him?

Finally, Pomfrey speaks. “When traumatic events occur that the brain can’t handle, sometimes a person is forced to forget. When coupled with magic, the effects can get stronger and stronger until all recollection of related circumstances is lost. It’s called Praetereous Syndrome, and you’ve got a strong case of it, Mr. Potter.”

Harry’s eyes widen. Fuck. The crater, the Remembrall… but just what has he forgotten? “Is there a way to reverse it?”

Pomfrey sighs. “Therein lies the dilemma. There’s a reason you’ve forgotten those memories. Praetereous Syndrome results only when the mind has a chance of completely collapsing at the time of the stressor. Yes, it’s possible that you’d react better now, since the traumatic event happened during wartime. You were probably stressed enough to cause serious mental damage anyway, at that point. The memories can be returned, but doing so carries with it the risk of permanently damaging you. And as a medical caretaker, I’m not going to risk returning your memories to you all at once.” She presses her lips together primly. “Frankly, I’m not sure that they should be returned to you at all, but that’s your decision.”

 

Harry’s mind is whirling. Something worse than the war, worse than the deaths of Fred and Hedwig and Lupin and so, so many others, worse than _dying_ himself?

“But all of you know what happened,” he says slowly.

Four heads nod back at him. “It was… fairly significant to the end of the final battle,” Hermione murmurs.

Harry squints. “But I know what happened during the final battle. I remember all of it.”

Ron mutters something to Hermione that Harry doesn’t quite catch, but they both have stricken looks on their faces.

“That’s also part of the Syndrome,” Madame Pomfrey explains. “In order to cover the gaps in your memory, your mind has created alternate versions of the points in your life that it deems necessary to hide from you.”

Harry’s mouth falls open. How much of his memory has been concealed by this… this _syndrome_? He swallows hard, feeling dizzy.

But there’s still more, because Madame Pomfrey keeps talking. “The reason for the intense pain you were feeling earlier is because you saw something that didn’t fit with the reality that your brain had created. Your mind was trying to push it away, but it wasn’t quite working.”

“I was always shite at Occlumency…” Harry mutters. “Right. I want my memory back.”

“Harry—“ Hermione starts to say, but she changes her mind and closes her mouth.

“There’s no easy way to do that, Mr. Potter,” says Madame Pomfrey. “The only spell that would work is an anti-Obliviate, and St. Mungo’s doesn’t routinely train their Healers to perform that spell.”

“Psh, Hermione can do that,” Ron waves the objection away. (Harry almost snorts to see Madame Pomfrey’s shocked expression in response.) “But Harry, mate, are you really sure you want them back? You heard what she said. It could really do you in.”

“I want to remember!” Harry clenches his fists, almost shouting. “I’m done with having my head fucked with, you know? Even if it’s my own head doing the fucking.”

“But Harry,” Hermione says, a fragile frown on her face. “How are you going to get through the term if you find out you can’t deal with it?”

“I’ll deal with it,” Harry growls. “End of story. I want them back.”

A chorus of voices rises to argue in response.

“Harry—“

“But—“

“Mr. Potter—“

“Stop it!” The last voice comes from Malfoy—it’s the first thing he’s said since coming back in the room. He’s coming closer, and Harry stares up at him, taking care not to look directly at the darkness. “Can’t you listen to your friends for once?” Malfoy continues sharply. “It doesn’t matter whether you remember or not. You’ll be better off without those memories.”

A shocked silence falls over the curtained cubicle.

“The things I’ve forgotten…” Harry says slowly, blinking up at Malfoy. “They’re about you, aren’t they? Otherwise, looking at you wouldn’t have made my head go funny.” He doesn’t mention the darkness. It’s obvious to him now that no one had actually been aware of his plan—he doesn’t even know if it would have worked, because apparently he’s been partially insane this whole time.

 

Malfoy nods. “Yes, they’re about me,” he confirms.

“So why do _you_ want me to forget?”

At this, both Ron and Hermione turn to look at Malfoy. Harry can see him swallow, tighten his lips, run a trembling hand through his hair.

“Because it would hurt you to remember,” he mutters.

Harry’s heart pounds. The only reason Malfoy would say that is if he cares about Harry, and that means that there must have been something that happened that _made_ him care so much that he doesn’t want to see Harry hurt—

An odd feeling creeps into his stomach. He doesn’t remember what really happened, but he does remember his dreams. The dreams in which Malfoy wasn’t rude or bigoted, but sexy and quiet. He doesn’t remember Malfoy being like that in waking life, ever, and that means that if it’s true in the real world, he must have forgotten about it. And something deep inside of him is screaming that yes, that’s the case.

But what does Malfoy _caring_ say about their relationship? That they were friends, at some point? Or…

Or that they were lovers.

His blood is churning in his veins, and his head starts to hurt again, _fucking syndrome trying to make him forget._ But no, he can do this, he wants to find out what happened, and if he’s right…

If he’s right, he has no idea what he’s going to do next.

Slowly, he becomes aware that his mouth is hanging open, and that everyone is staring at him. This isn’t going to work. He needs to talk to Malfoy, and it needs to be in private.

“…Go away,” he mumbles. No one moves. “Go. Away!” he says again. “But not you,” he adds, nodding his head toward Malfoy.

Still, no one moves.

Finally, Madame Pomfrey crosses her arms. “One thing, Mr. Potter. I don’t recommend having the memories returned to you, even if your friends have… _exceptional_ magical ability.” (At this, Hermione blushes, turning her head away.) “It’s ultimately your decision. But if someone were to enlighten you of the circumstances that your mind has hidden from you, you should be able to think about them from a second-hand perspective without too much mental distress. It’s your decision, whichever choice you make.” She heaves a sigh, mutters something suspiciously like “I’m getting too old for this,” and shuffles back toward her office.

In her wake, the others start moving. Hermione gives Harry a hug. Then, unexpectedly, she walks over to Malfoy and hugs him, too.

“Thank you for trying,” she whispers before pulling away and pushing past the curtains, shoes clicking off toward the door.

Ron gives Harry a pat on the back. Then he, too, looks at Malfoy. “Right. I’m sorry, mate. You’re not so bad, for not wanting to hurt him. So… yeah, I’m sorry for being a wanker. This year, anyway. I’m not sorry for the other years.” He shrugs, then leaves as well.

Malfoy stands rigidly through both encounters. His expression is brimming with shocked confusion. These apologies… they were unexpected, then. There’s a shift happening, and Harry can sense it, even if he is missing essential memories. Hermione and Ron are making amends with Malfoy, for Harry, because something is about to happen, _has already happened_ that makes it necessary.

Steadying himself, he looks back at Malfoy again, who is currently sitting down in the chair that Ron had vacated.

“I want to talk,” Harry says. He then flushes, realizing that he’d said that same exact phrase in the common room earlier that night.

“Well obviously,” Malfoy quips. “Although I think this time around, you’re actually sane, and we’re going to talk about what I thought we were going to discuss in the first place.” He folds his arms around himself, sighing.

Harry bites his lip. “You don’t want me to have my memories back,” he states plainly.

Malfoy shakes his head, looking down at the floor. “No. I don’t.”

“Because you don’t want me to get hurt.”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re in love with me.”

“Ye—holy fuck, Harry, where did that come from?” Malfoy’s head shoots up. He looks absolutely mortified. “Fuck it all, you weren’t supposed to know that,” he covers his face with one hand.

Harry’s having trouble swallowing. He hadn’t expected him to say yes. He kind of wants to touch Malfoy, to hug him, because the damned dreams have made Malfoy harder and harder to resist.

Or maybe he wants to touch Malfoy because it’s natural to touch him, because he’s touched Malfoy like that before and just doesn’t remember doing so.

The thought makes him shiver.

An idea breaks through his musings: was it Malfoy breaking up with him that caused the Syndrome to activate? Harry doesn’t think so, because he doubts Malfoy would stare at him all the time if that was true. But damn it, he needs to know…

“Could you tell me then, what happened?” Harry requests quietly. Madame Pomfrey had said that it would work, that Harry won’t hurt if it’s done correctly. He sure hopes so.

Malfoy peeks out from between his fingers. “In a minute,” he sighs. “I’m still dying of shame, here.”

Despite the solemnity of the situation, Harry can’t hold back a snort, and Malfoy’s gaze softens in response. He puts his hand down, giving Harry a small smile. Harry’s heart thuds erratically. Malfoy had been trying to put him at ease, _knew how_ to put Harry at ease, and it feels really… nice. A smile quirks at the edges of his lips.

He slides his gaze over Malfoy’s hair, his eyes. It wouldn’t be so bad, to have Malfoy love him. He continues following the lines of the other man’s body with his eyes. His pale neck, his simple nightshirt.

He’s lulled into a sense of security by the sudden realization of Malfoy’s brilliance. Which turns out to be a bad thing, because his eyes slide over to the darkness around Malfoy’s arm before he can stop them.

Except that there is no darkness around Malfoy’s arm, because Malfoy’s missing an arm.

He screams, and pain explodes in his head once again, so much that he has to squeeze his eyes shut. This time, he knows what’s happening, and he can try and fight it—he searches for the mental strings that he used when learning Occlumency, and _pulls_ —there! He blocks the pain for a moment and sees a brief glimpse of memory (Malfoy touching his hair, mouth curved into more of a smile than a smirk) before his shield snaps.

Then there is pain again, except it isn’t nearly as bad because now there’s someone holding him, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close. He forces himself to breathe, _breathe,_ and smells a scent that’s familiar and foreign all at once.

“Harry, shh, you don’t have to remember,” a voice says in his ear.

It’s Malfoy, of course. The aching ebbs enough that he can open his eyes, and he’s a little shocked to realize that tears have leaked out of them because of the pain.

Breathe in, breathe out.

“If you want to know, I’ll tell you about it,” Malfoy whispers in his ear. “Just listen. Pretend this is about someone else. Don’t try to remember, because I don’t… I don’t want it to hurt you. Promise you won’t try to remember.”

Harry sighs and nods, giving up on trying to think about it—he’s stubborn, yes, but if this is what it feels like _not_ to know, he doesn’t want to remember the pain his mind is trying to save him from.

“Will it hurt, still?” he asks, feeling overly vulnerable.

Malfoy flinches. “…I don’t know. Pomfrey said it shouldn’t, but… if it does, I’m sorry.”

Harry tries to ignore the odd feeling in his chest from hearing the words “I’m sorry” tumbling out of Malfoy’s mouth. “It’s all right,” he shakes his head. “I still want to know.”

“Okay,” Malfoy pulls away, standing awkwardly for a moment. “Can I sit next to you?” he asks eventually. Harry nods and shifts over, making room for Malfoy to clamber up next to him in the small bed. He glances at Malfoy’s pensive face, his chapped lips, the empty sleeve where his arm should be ( _his stomach twists, his head hurts a bit but he pushes the pain away_ ), and waits.

“I’m going to tell you a story, now,” Malfoy starts, and his voice is shakier than it should be.

Harry pulls his knees up to his chest, feeling small and hurt and hollow. He thinks of the crater in his dreams, of sitting next to Draco on the edge of oblivion. He feels the same, now, except instead of having his emotions dulled by sleep, they are now vivid, pinching, suffocating.

“I’m a rubbish story teller, so don’t laugh at me,” Malfoy’s face twists wryly. “All right. Once, there were two boys in their sixth year at Hogwarts. We’ll call them H and D. They’re rivals, except that D fancies H a bit, and H has no idea.”

Harry feels his face grow hot. Really? He swallows and ducks his head, realizing that Draco is giving him an odd look. “Sorry,” he mumbles. It’s best not to think about this in relation to himself more than necessary. He doesn’t want to pass out again, right when he’s so close to getting the information he wants.

Draco looks down at the blanket underneath them and continues. “Anyway, at the end of their sixth year, they… they get in a fight. And D gets hurt.”  
The Sectumsempra incident. That much, Harry remembers.

“But H feels really bad about it afterwards, and eventually comes to D to talk about it at the end of the school year. Long story short, they end up snogging.” Malfoy pauses, picking at the blanket with long fingers. “So now, H and D are sort of in this relationship, but they have to keep it hidden because they’re on opposite sides of a war. Even when H goes into hiding, they continue to owl and occasionally… meet up,” he says carefully, in a way that makes Harry _know_ that ( _oh God_ ) they’ve slept together, and multiple times, from what it sounds like.

He’s not as put off by that as he expects to be. He’s wanked to thoughts of the other man, after all. That they’ve actually had sex… he’s surprised by the flare of sudden want that pulses through him, but he pushes it away. He needs to listen.

“The problem is that D works for a very bad man. V, we’ll call him. And V… finds out about their relationship. Neither H nor D knows what V knows. They think they’re doing a good job of keeping it a secret,” Draco’s voice has quieted to a hushed whisper. “So then there’s a very important battle. V knows that it’s easiest to hurt H by hurting people he cares about. So he kills D’s father. But that doesn’t work, H still wants to fight. Something strange happens with H and V in the woods, and it looks like H is dead, but he isn’t.”

Harry reaches out, seeking Draco’s hand and clasping it tightly. Draco’s words are describing a completely changed universe from what he knows, one that hurts worse and worse as Draco keeps talking.

“So H and V come back into the Great Hall. D is there, and he’s so happy that H is alive that he forgets…” Draco’s voice cracks, and he pauses, breathing shakily. He looks at Harry, and Harry feels a _zing_ of panic shoot through him, because oh God oh God _oh God,_ it suddenly clicks. He doesn’t remember what happened, no, but he can predict things just fine, and he knows what’s going to come next before the words even leave Draco’s mouth. He almost wants to stop Draco from saying it aloud, but his body, stricken with horrified curiosity, stays still.

He doesn’t want to know this, he doesn’t, but at the same time, he does…

He squeezes his eyes shut. Draco continues.

“…he forgets that he’s supposed to be hiding their relationship. So V sees them hugging, and corners them… Did you know that Dark Marks have snakes inside them? It has to do with the bonding magic.”

Yes, Harry knew that, he had found that out when he had been trying to save Draco from the darkness that his own mind had conjured. The guilt sweeps through him, sickening, terrifying, he _doesn’t want to hear this, but he has to_ —

Draco takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, and continues. “And then V orders the snake embedded in D’s Mark start eating him alive. H goes a little bit insane and kills V, which thankfully means that D only loses an arm. And that’s how the war ended.” He finishes the story quickly, the words coming so fast that Harry doesn’t grasp their meaning until a few seconds afterward.

No, no. He wants to vomit. Merlin, no, that can’t be how it went, except that he’s lost his memory and Draco’s in love with him and missing an arm and how else could that have happened? The pain in his head threatens to come back, but he pushes it away—he has to keep pretending that it’s just a story, it’s not real, or his head might explode.

“Are you… okay?” Draco asks shakily. Harry looks up. Draco’s face is pale, drained—and then the reality slams into him, of what this year has been like for Draco.

Harry had ignored him. The entire year. He had ignored him because he’d _forgotten_ , he had _no idea_ what Draco had given up. No wonder Draco had stared at him so often, had come to talk with him so easily. This was why Hermione and Ginny wanted him to talk to Draco, because they _knew_ , but no one wanted to mention it aloud.

A brief flare of anger at his friends passes through him, because they should have told him, someone should have told him! But he tamps down the anger, because Hermione and Ron, at least, probably hadn’t even liked that he was with Draco in the first place. They had probably just assumed that the relationship was too traumatic to continue, since Harry hadn’t talked to Draco at the beginning of the semester. And Harry had gone on as usual with classes and Hogsmeade visits and essays because he hadn’t known. From an outside perspective, Harry had been perfectly happy the whole semester, so his friends wouldn’t have had a reason to start being suspicious—until he started researching the Mark.

And they’d apologized to Draco earlier, which is something even Harry hasn’t done yet.

He feels awful. “I’m sorry!” he manages, voice coming out strangled and shaky, and Draco’s eyes widen.

“Don’t you even dare feel bad for me, Harry,” Draco puts a hand on his shoulder and grips him tightly. “Don’t. I can’t deal with that. It serves me right for being an awful person during the war,” his brow wrinkles. “So don’t pity me.”

And now Draco blames himself for matters in which he may not have had a choice. _What has he done?_

 

“I… they couldn’t make the arm grow back?” he whispers.

“Curse damage. No one could. And honestly, a lot of the Healers didn’t even want to treat me.” His voice is pinched and bitter, matching the gravity of his words.

Harry’s afraid that he’ll throw up if he opens his mouth again, but he does so anyway because there’s another question that’s pushed to the forefront of his mind. He’s almost scared to ask, but he has to know.

“Did… did I love you?”

Draco looks down. “I don’t know.”

Harry’s heart clenches; he feels like he can’t breathe.

“We never talked about it. You… you were never supposed to find out how I felt,” Draco whispers, lips trembling, pulling his knees up to his chest.

Oh. Oh, no, Draco. No. The pain comes back. This time, though, the pain is in his chest instead of his head. He feels as if he’s swallowed a sea urchin and it’s taken residence in his throat.

Leaning forward, he rests his head on Draco’s shoulder, and Draco takes a few shaky breaths before wrapping his arm around Harry’s back.

He wants to say that he loves him, he wants to fix this, but he can’t because he doesn’t actually remember how he feels. All he knows is that his heart hurts for Draco, and sometimes he has dreams about him and wanks to his picture, and _God_ he feels so dirty because he’s wanked to his Dark Mark—but that’s not what it was about the picture, he realizes. It’s never been that he thinks the Mark is sexy, but that he wants the owner to be happy and whole. Maybe his subconscious always knew what had happened, even under the layers of deceit that the Praetereous Syndrome had built for him.

He’ll fix this. He will.

“Why did you fall in love with me?” he asks, willing his heartbeat to slow down lest his heart shatter completely.

Draco tenses. “Do I really have to answer that?” he murmurs, mouth somewhere near Harry’s ear, breath puffing against his neck. Harry shudders.

“You don’t have to.” He pauses.

Can he say it?

 _Crash, crash,_ goes his heart, as he leans in further.

He can say it. “…Especially since I’m going to date you without remembering half our relationship, you know?”

Draco pulls away suddenly, looking startled. “Wait. You’re not saying you _want_ to be in a relationship with me, are you?”

Harry’s face twists in confusion. “Don’t you want to?” Because _yes,_ Harry wants to. In the space of half an hour, Draco has become extremely important to him, and if they had dated before, they could do it again. Even if Harry’s never going to remember anything that happened the first time around.

Thinking of his stifled memories makes his stomach lurch, because it only serves to remind him of how completely awful he’s been toward Draco. Part of him knows it’s not really his fault, but he can’t help the guilt that’s still tugging at his stomach.

“Harry—of course I want to,” Draco rubs his hand over his face, and a relieved flutter twists down Harry’s spine. “But I don’t see why _you_ would want it.”

Honestly, Harry himself doesn’t know exactly why, except that dream-Draco was sexy and lovely and kept away his nightmares. Dream-Draco’s not real, but the Draco in front of him is, and this Draco loves him, apparently—why?

“Tell me why you fell in love with me,” he requests again, twisting his fist in the blankets.

Draco rolls his eyes. “You’re really going to make me say it, aren’t you? Fine.” He gives a sharp sigh. “You’ve got a ridiculously attractive smile, you never gave up on me during the war, you kept me grounded when I needed you to, and you suck cock like a god. Can I stop now?” He doesn’t pause as he rattles off the list, and Harry’s heart stutters and thuds with every other syllable.

“Y-yeah. I… wow.” He flushes, closing his eyes to the sudden rush of embarrassment that crashes over him.

“Merlin, that was embarrassing. I can’t believe you made me do that,” Draco complains, then shakes his head. “This term has been a fucking Gringott’s trip, you realize?” He leans against the headboard, looking up at the ceiling. “I thought you were ignoring me because you couldn’t stand to look at me anymore. To think that you had just forgotten, of all things…” Harry’s throat tightens. “I’m… relieved. I thought you hated me.”

Harry shakes his head fervently. “I didn’t. I just thought it was weird that you were staring at me the whole term. And I dreamt about you, and I wanted to remove your Mark…”

He trails off, shutting his mouth before he has time to sound like even more of a loon than he already is. Draco glances at him strangely, but says nothing.

Where to go from here? He’s absolutely cocked up the beginning of the term, after all. But he knows the truth, now, and Draco’s waiting for him.

He opens his eyes. “I might be falling in love with you,” he whispers, saying it quickly so the nervousness doesn’t trip him up. “I don’t know for certain yet, and I don’t know if I loved you before, but… I think I might, now.”

Draco lets out a startled laugh, then bites his lip. “Really?”

Harry nods, neck growing warm.

“Even though I’m… like this?” Draco shrugs his empty sleeve, mouth twisting uncertainly.

Harry’s brow wrinkles, and the guilt returns, pulsing, scrambling his insides. “Draco. I don’t care about that. You… that happened because of me. And I’m so, so sorry,” Harry says. He thinks tears might be pricking at his eyes, but he doesn’t care. “I feel absolutely terrible. About everything. But you’re… beautiful, actually. And you were willing to completely…” He lets out a shuddery breath. “…to let me completely forget about our relationship, just so you wouldn’t hurt me. And that’s enough for me.” He takes a deep breath, trying to flush the guilt out and away.

Draco’s staring at him, his mouth rounded into a trembling ‘o’. “Fucking sappy git,” he mutters, and then he’s crashing his lips into Harry’s.

“Mm—“ he gasps, then relaxes against Draco’s mouth, his heart warming with quivering brilliance. Draco’s _good_ at this, he’s already managed to slip his tongue between Harry’s lips, and Harry isn’t even holding him yet. He slides a hand into Draco’s hair for a second time that night—except this time, it’s for all the right reasons. Draco licks into his mouth slowly, but it’s not sloppy or overly wet, it’s _perfect,_ oh…

Draco pulls away slightly, eyes wide and bright. “Did you mean all of that?”

“Of course I did,” says Harry, feeling bereft. He needs kiss Draco again, so he does, pressing close and warm against his firm body. This time, it’s Draco who gasps in wonder, melting into Harry with warm, lovely touches.

“Want to fuck you,” Draco mumbles against his lips.

Harry tenses immediately, a warm shock jolting through his spine.

“I haven’t…” he starts to say, but stops. _I haven’t had sex before,_ is what he was going to say. Except that he _has_ had sex before, with Draco, and he just doesn’t remember.

Draco blinks. “What? Oh, right… never mind, then,” he murmurs, and starts to nuzzle at Harry’s neck.

“Wait,” Harry says, and pauses to moan when Draco nips at a particularly sensitive spot. “Mm… But, I do want you,” he admits. Draco’s starting to make his head go fuzzy, so he pulls away, because he wants _more._ He’s been dreaming about Draco for ages, about snakes crawling over skin and nimble fingers removing clothes. He’s so hard it hurts, and if they keep making out just like this, he’s going to come in his pants.

“We should wait,” Draco insists, trying to lean closer and kiss him again. Harry slides his hands onto Draco’s chest, holding him slightly away.

“I don’t want to wait. I’ve… I’ve wanted you like _that_ for a while,” he admits, feeling careful and unsure.

Draco frowns slightly. “Snogging’s fine, too. We don’t have to rush.”

Harry blinks at him. He wants this, he really does. And Draco had just said that he wanted Harry, too, so why is he changing his mind all of a sudden?

He sees the edge of Draco’s lip quirk up. Wait a minute… “Are you having me on?” he squints at him.

Draco’s face breaks out into a smirk. “Yeah, actually, I am.”

Well, that explains it. Harry lets out a breathy laugh. “You’re…” he swallows. “You’re something.”

Draco leans forward again, and Harry lets him. “I’ve _been_ waiting. I don’t think I can wait any longer,” he whispers, pressing his mouth against Harry’s jaw, and Harry thinks it’s quite possibly the sexiest thing he’s ever heard.

“Good,” he says, voice coming out low and rumbly. Draco kisses him again.

Dimly, he’s aware that Draco has picked up his wand and is casting a series of privacy charms at the curtains. He squints at him slightly. “We aren’t going to have sex in the Hospital Wing, are we?”

Draco shrugs. “I just told you that I can’t wait any longer,” he reiterates, setting his wand down on the side table.

“But people will hear,” Harry protests, flushing.

“There’s only one other patient here, I checked. And I may or may not have cast a rather strong sleeping charm on them when I first came in the room.” Draco smirks slightly, kissing him again.

Laughter bubbles in Harry’s chest, and he relaxes, shaking his head slightly. “It’s your fault if someone finds us,” he mumbles, in between kisses.

“Trust me, no one will.”

And then Draco’s hand is sliding under his shirt like fire over skin. He shudders, meeting his lips with even more fervor. “Need you,” he murmurs.

Draco nods, pulls away. “Can you take your clothes off?” he asks, eyes not meeting Harry’s. “I have trouble with buttons.”

A flash of understanding ( _guilt_ ) slides through Harry. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he murmurs. He quickly unbuttons his shirt, pulling it off and discarding it on the floor. Trousers next, and then only his pants are left, erection jutting out against the thin cloth. He takes a deep breath and removes them too.

Draco is watching him, eyes wide and intense. Harry leans forward slowly and tries not to feel embarrassed, kissing Draco on his cheek, his jaw, his lips. “Do you want me to do yours, too?”

“Yeah,” Draco replies, and he’s trembling a bit. Harry presses his lips against Draco’s, searching with unhurried fingertips for the edge of Draco’s nightshirt. He pulls it up, up, and away, keeping his eyes closed until he’s nearly finished.

Draco stops him when he tries to pull away and look. “You might not like it,” he says, looking scared, hand hot against Harry’s waist.

“It’ll be okay,” Harry reassures him with a soft kiss. He then looks down before Draco can stop him again.

The first thing he sees is that the scars crisscrossing Draco’s chest are exactly like the ones in his dreams—so he’s gotten something right, at least. He can almost imagine the snakes sliding across Draco’s chest. It makes him flush, makes him harder, needier.

He slides his eyes to the side, where an arm should have been. Instead, Draco’s shoulder simply stops, and the skin is scarred and red. It’s jarring, and Harry thinks it may take some time for him get used to it (and for the guilt to stop twisting in his gut). But despite everything, Draco’s still probably the sexiest thing he’s ever seen, and Harry’s lips part in a low groan.

Harry glances back up to Draco’s face—Draco’s still shaking. “You’re beautiful,” he tells him, and eagerly goes back to kissing him.

Draco moans, reaching out and putting his hand on Harry’s cock (oh, oh, he’s not going to last very long, is he?) “God, Harry—fuck me,” he says.

“Yes, yes, okay,” Harry groans, not even caring that it’s a change from what Draco had wanted earlier. He reaches down quickly to pull at Draco’s pajama bottoms; Draco leans back and helps him shove them off, along with his pants. Then Draco’s naked, laid bare, cock heavy against his stomach. Harry can’t help but touch him, running his hand up Draco’s pale thigh, kissing his neck and both shoulders.

“Here, lube,” Draco grabs his wand, laying back and pointing it first at himself, and then at Harry’s hand. Harry’s fingers are suddenly cool and slippery. Draco lets his legs fall open, looking like a wet dream, and Harry’s cock pulses with interest. They’re moving fast, but not quite fast enough—Harry doesn’t hesitate to press a finger to Draco’s lube-slicked hole. It slides slowly into that tight heat (how is his cock even going to fit?) until it’s all the way to the knuckle. He wiggles it experimentally. Draco gasps. He adds another.

 

“You said… ah… you dreamed about me?” Draco asks, eyes half-lidded. “Did you dream about fucking me?” His words are breathy, casual, and how Draco manages to seem confident with Harry’s fingers up his arse, Harry doesn’t know.

“No,” he shakes his head, adding a third finger slowly. “But you took your clothes off. You made me want you,” he admits, far beyond embarrassment at this point.

Draco waggles his eyebrows. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he thrusts his hips a bit, forcing Harry’s fingers deeper— _oh._

Draco gives him a sly grin. A strong sense of Déjà vu washes over him, and he knows immediately that he must have seen that expression on Draco before. He’s a little sad to know that he might not ever remember exactly when, but then Draco’s casting the lube charm on Harry’s cock and he forgets about anything that doesn’t have to do with fucking him.

Draco hooks his feet over Harry’s shoulders. Harry palms his cock, looking down at Draco, imprinting the sight into his memory. He never wants to forget this. Slowly, he lines himself up and presses forward, watching as Draco’s eyes mouth falls open and his eyes fall closed.

And then he’s sliding in, he’s _inside Draco._ He’s trying to go slow but he doesn’t know if he can—but then Draco’s pulling at his hip, urging him to move, and he gives in to the sensations entirely. He begins thrusting steadily, gripping at Draco’s thighs to hold him up, face flushed and sweaty. When Draco starts tugging at his own cock, Harry has to close his eyes, because the sight of Draco touching himself and biting his lip is too much to handle. He wants to hold on until Draco lets go, but he’s not sure if he can, the heat around him is too slick, too tight, too intense.

“This feels… quite good, actually,” Draco mumbles, voice heavy with lust.

“Mm. Didn’t you… expect it to?” Harry asks, every word an almost-moan.

He opens his eyes to see Draco shrugging, smirking, raising his eyebrows while he tugs at his cock. “I did, a bit… but I’ve also never bottomed before,” he says casually.

What—fuck—Draco must be trying to kill him, he must be—“Draco, _fuck_!” Harry exclaims, and comes.

It hits him like a Stunner. All he knows is Draco, tight around him. He can sense him chuckling, can hear when laughter becomes keening murmurs of Harry’s name, can feel when his arse starts to spasm erratically around Harry’s cock as he meets Harry in orgasm. All else is bliss. He shudders, leaning over and bending Draco nearly double, crushing their mouths together.

When it’s over and they’re both panting and sweaty and spent, he rolls to the side, his head landing near Draco’s mouth. The feeling of warm breath on hot skin makes him shiver and squirm.

Draco’s hand finds his, and he tangles their fingers together. “You let me top,” Harry muses, words slow and husky.

Draco nods slowly.

“And you hadn’t, before.”

“No, I hadn’t.”

“Why not?” Harry asks curiously.

“To be honest…” Draco’s mouth twists wryly, and he shrugs. “I was too stubborn to let you do it earlier, even though I wanted it. And you don’t remember what happened before, but it felt like something I should do.” He’s looking almost shyly at Harry, squeezing his hand tightly, and Harry’s heart skips a beat.

“You felt amazing,” he murmurs truthfully.

“Good to know.” A smile forms on Draco’s lips, but for some reason it fades away as quickly as it comes.

Harry frowns slightly. “Is something wrong?”

Draco’s brow furrows. “No... Not wrong, per se. Just… this is so much more than I could have asked for.” He swallows, averting his eyes. “Because I didn’t think I’d ever get to touch you again, you know?”

Oh, yes, that. The guilt renews itself—Harry thinks it will be a long time until it’s gone completely.

“And now we’re… together again,” Draco continues, shrugging. “It happened so fast—I found out you had forgotten everything, and then you found out that I… you know. Love you. And now we’re here.” He shakes his head. “It’s… I never understood why someone would cry of happiness until now. And no, I’m not going to do that,” he assures drily. “But it’s that kind of feeling.”

The end of his speech is slightly lost on Harry, because Draco has said it again. That he loves him. Draco loves Harry. Without warning, the thought sets off a chain reaction of tingling euphoria, ending in a pulse of love so strong that it’s almost tangible. It ricochets from his heart to the tips of his toes, and the emotion swells within him, filling him up to bursting. 

Somewhere in there is the niggling feeling that this—Draco opening up after sex—happens rather often. It's a different side of Draco than he had seen in his dreams, and he thinks he rather likes it.

“I love you,” he can’t help but say.

Draco swallows hard, widens his eyes, bites his lip. “Harry… Fuck. I still can’t believe… You're…” And then he seems to run out of words completely, so he presses his face into Harry’s neck instead.

Harry smiles, pulls Draco into his arms, and starts to close his eyes.

But then Draco pinches him. He winces, swatting at Draco’s hand. “What?”

“We’re not going to cuddle in the fucking Hospital Wing,” Draco mutters. Ah, so he’s back to his normal, biting self, then—and that’s okay. Harry loves him anyway.

He pulls away, looking down at Draco’s face. Draco’s raising his eyebrows defiantly.

Chuckling and biting back a remark about how they had just fucked in ‘the fucking hospital wing’, he yields without argument, blearily sliding out of bed and grabbing for his clothing.

They tiptoe out of the room. Draco pulls at his arm, urging him along—and suddenly they’re running through the corridor, trying to stay quiet, veering down a side path to avoid Peeves. Harry looks over at Draco, who still looks absolutely debauched, and has to stifle a bout of laughter as they reach the Common Room.

Through the room, down the hall, and into bed they go.

Harry thinks that they’ve left the darkness behind in the Hospital Wing, and is glad for it.

-X-

“It’s done.”

Harry stares at the lava that now fills the crater. It’s settling, cooling, letting off constant steam as it hardens to rock.

He starts to turn away, but stops—something is happening on the surface of the rock.

He watches. Slowly, unbelievably, the green of many small sprouts starts to show. They push up into the air until they become shrubs, grass, tall trees.

Harry gasps in wonder, grabbing for Draco’s hand—but finding nothing, fingers brushing against Draco’s hip instead. He turns his head in surprise.

Draco is looking at him, smiling shyly, eyes bright. His arm is missing.

Harry feels a slow grin start to spread on his face. He leans closer and slips his arm around Draco’s waist.

They both turn to watch as the snakes begin to move, to scramble away toward their new home. Draco leans down, trying to shake the baby snake off his wrist so that it, too, can go. It simply looks up at them, flicking its tongue belligerently. Harry chuckles. It’s here to stay, then.

Draco starts to leave. “Where are you going?” Harry asks.

“Elsewhere,” Draco says over his shoulder. “We don’t need to be here, any longer.” He keeps walking, motioning for Harry to follow.

Harry blinks and nods. “You’re right.”

He casts a last glance at the shimmering forest, then runs to catch up to Draco.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: amputation, memory loss, snakes used to harm/maim
> 
> Comments are very welcome. You may leave them here or over at [Livejournal](http://hd-remix.livejournal.com/88521.html).


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